


Anguish Ascendant

by InnerMuse



Series: Broken [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood Magic, Dark, Demons, F/M, Featuring Anguish with a capital A, It's entirely torture porn, Like seriously a lot of torture, Not for the faint of heart, Or stomach, Red Lyrium Cullen, Torture, non-con kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5588005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerMuse/pseuds/InnerMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor is tortured by a demon of Anguish in the shape of Red Lyrium Cullen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follows from Chapter 5 of part 2 of the series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, folks, and pull out your flashlights - it's going to be a bumpy ride, and it gets _very_ dark in here.
> 
> Torture + forced lucidity = ...

Kelandris stared dully at the ceiling. It was not very interesting, but that was okay. She didn't want to think – thinking meant acknowledging the fact that she was in pain. Which was not a surprise – her life consisted entirely of two kinds of agony: the bearable kind, when she was alone, and the unbearable kind, when she wasn't. (She was fairly certain that there had been a time when that wasn't the case— but it didn't really matter, anymore.) At the moment, unfortunately, she was not alone. So, Kelandris stared at the ceiling. The blocks of stone that made it up were all slightly different colors. One had an oddly-shaped stain on it – she wondered for a little while what could stain the _ceiling_ like that, but wondering was perilously close to thinking, so she stopped. Counting was alright, though – there were precisely twenty-two stones in her field of vision. Or possibly twenty-three – she had lost track a couple times. She would have to double check – which was good, since she needed something to focus on. There were still two fingernails left on her right hand. For now, anyway. Maybe she would get to keep one ( _please, Maker, **please**_ ) – she got to last time, and that had been worse, since she hadn't even known that healing potions could regrow fingernails—

No. Stop. She was thinking again. That was bad. She had to stop. She had to stop _now_.

Shuddering, Kelandris stared at the ceiling, and counted stones.

\---

His Inquisitor no longer responded to his ministrations the way he liked. Anguish contemplated her glassy stare, stroking the back of her hand. Blood trickled sluggishly from the three empty nail beds. Experimentally, he gripped her ring finger in one hand and started working a claw under her nail with the other. Kelandris flinched, jerking against her manacles with a whimpering hiss of breath, but she didn't look away from the ceiling. The demon eyed her measuringly, pausing his attentions to gauge her reaction. The new pain he was causing sizzled in her mind, but it was remote, distant. In fact, he hadn't felt more than flickers of her awareness in a while – every time her focus shifted back towards him or what he was doing, she would shy away, returning to her determined tally of the ceiling stones. (There were actually twenty-four, but there was one she wouldn't be able to see unless she looked straight past him, which she was understandably reluctant to do.) It seemed he had finally reached the limits of what she could endure unaided. Though there was still one more thing left he could try...

Anguish called her name. "Look at me, beloved," he crooned imploringly, "I know you can hear me."

That earned him a dim flash of weary revulsion tinged with grief, but nothing more. Dropping her hand, the demon rose. That was that, then. He strode to the door, buoyed by a growing bubble of anticipation – it was time to set his plan into motion. He would find his subordinates and order the release of a few critical documents – just enough to set the Inquisition on his trail. After that, he would send for a mage to see to Kelandris... and then, only then, the true fun would begin. The culmination of all his efforts since he had been summoned to this plane.

It was going to be glorious.

\---

There was someone else in the room. That was strange – usually when she was being tortured it was just her and— her tormentor. ( _Not Cullen, not Cullen, it's not him, it's not..._ ) The newcomer stepped up to her prone form with a swish of robes. Kelandris didn't react, even when he drew a knife with a rasp of steel on leather. The stinging bite of his blade against her chest, though, was almost enough to spark a flicker of emotion – her red Templar captor had _never_ let anyone else touch her. She wasn't sure what it meant that he was doing so now, but it couldn't _possibly_ be good—

No, it didn't matter. She didn't care. It wasn't as if there was anything the newcomer could do that was worse than what had already—

He stepped back. The sigil he had etched into her flesh flared briefly with sanguine light, and everything snapped abruptly into horrible, chilling, perfect focus. All at once, her awareness of her injuries – what she had been fighting to push away – came rushing back. Kelandris blanched – she couldn't wrench her mind away from the pain. She had stopped paying attention to the details of her torment after a while – it was the only way to protect her mind from the horrors being wrought upon her body. But now... trapped in the grip of whatever foul magic had taken hold of her, she felt it all. Every cut, every burn, every inch of flayed skin and missing nail and broken bone— She _screamed_. She hadn't screamed in ages, not since she had started ignoring her torture, but there was no ignoring anything, now. Not anymore. All she could do was lay there and take it – there was no escape, nothing that would help. She was a prisoner in her own head, forced to wallow in unfiltered, unadulterated _agony_ — She couldn't bear it. It was too much, it was more than _anyone_ could bear—

Or rather, it would have been too much – but she had just been bound to sanity with blood magic.

Kelandris had been wrong when she thought that nothing could get worse – this was worse than anything that had come before. This was _so much_ worse. She screamed and screamed, writhing fruitlessly. She could almost _feel_ the comforting embrace of madness – it flitted around the edges of her consciousness, just out of reach, a promise of sweet oblivion that could never be fulfilled. Finally, she ran out of breath and slumped into stillness, shuddering and panting. Her throat ached. That was the least of her problems, but she couldn't block it out. She couldn't block _anything_ out, now— She had never even considered facing something like this, not in her worst nightmares. How was she supposed to deal with this? Maker, _how?_ The overwhelming cacophony of sensation would be enough to drive anyone insane, but even that was denied to her, now. There was no comfort to be had, there. But... maybe there was still one way to escape the agony. Gritting her teeth with the effort, Kelandris raised her head. A moment later, the jarring impact of her skull meeting stone blazed down her spine, ripping through her whole body. It made everything hurt fractionally worse, but it was followed by a wave of dizziness that sent darkness creeping in from the edges of her vision. Good. She did it again – more pain, as expected, but her sight dimmed even further—

Before she could slam her head back a third time, though, a hand gripped her hair, tightly. The red Templar captain had perched on the edge of the altar to which she was bound, watching her with a strange, eager light smoldering in his scarlet eyes.

"That's not going to work, love," he said. It was Cullen's voice, still, edged with the skin-crawling hum of red lyrium's corruption, but the dark undertones seemed stronger, now. Kelandris tugged against his hold – if she could just get one more hit— but the woozy fog was already clearing, the blackness in her vision receding... That unnatural clarity returned, undiminished by her efforts. She was left with only a new throbbing pain at the back of her skull, one that just served to highlight the futility of her situation. She couldn't make herself pass out, any more than she could be driven mad. Wide eyed and shaking with horror, she stared up at her captor.

"What did you do?" She whispered hoarsely. She drew a ragged breath, and then her anguished wail echoed off the walls, reverberating around the small chamber – "Sweet Maker and Blessed Andraste, _what did you **do?!** "_

The perverted remnants of her lover just looked at her as the sound of her cry faded. Looked at her and smirked, the bastard. "You were shutting me out," he explained patiently. "That wouldn't do at all – so I called in some help. Now, nothing will distract you from our remaining time together... Tell me, did you figure out how many blocks make up the ceiling?" He cocked his head, eyes crinkled as if in amusement at a private joke. It was the least funny thing Kelandris had ever heard in her life.

_"Blood magic,_ Cullen?" The question slipped out – she knew it wasn't him. But the only thing that could have rivaled the strength of her Commander's love for her was his hatred of maleficar...

His smile fading, the red Templar captain stared intensely into her eyes. "Anything for you, Kelandris," he breathed. His free hand came up to cup her chin. The gesture was almost tender... But the razor tip of his thumb traced along her bottom lip, and she tasted blood, feeling sick. With a whimper, she squeezed her eyes shut. Not that it would make this any more bearable, but at least she wouldn't have to look at his face as he performed whatever new horrors he planned to inflict on— her train of thought stuttered to a halt. _Nothing will distract you from our remaining time together..._

Kelandris choked on a gasp as she realized what that statement must mean, her eyes snapping open once again to fix on her tormentor's face.

"You're going to kill me," she rasped. It was not a question. A look of pleasant surprise flitted across his twistedly familiar features.

"I should have known you would pick up on that... But yes, I am," he confirmed, nonchalantly, lips curling into a lopsided grin. "I'm going to kill you."

There was a moment of profoundly chilling silence.

"Oh, Maker," she groaned, "It won't be quick, will it." That wasn't a question, either.

"No," came the haunting reply. "And the Maker can't help you, now, Kelandris – no one can." She felt his hot breath against her face the moment before his mouth pressed to hers. His teeth sank into her lower lip, as they often did when he kissed her. She knew what was coming next and clenched her teeth, but he hardly seemed to notice as he wrenched her jaws apart, filling her mouth with the scorching, acrid taste of mingled blood and lyrium. A wracking sob bubbled up from deep within when he finally let her go. She ought to be grateful that she was going to die – she would be free of him, soon – but throughout all her torments, he had been careful not to cause any permanent damage. With enough time and enough elfroot, most of her wounds could have healed – she had had to stay whole enough that he could come back the next day and torture her again. But now... that protection, slight as it had been, was gone.

"How long?" She whimpered. She almost didn't want to hear the answer, but... she had to know what was in store. Her tormentor smiled down at her. His hand left her hair – she flinched at the sharp release of tension – and scraped down the side of her face to join the other in cupping her jaw. His grip was painfully tight. She knew that if he chose, he could crush her skull like an egg, bolstered by the terrifying strength of red lyrium – and she also knew that he wouldn't do so. That would be far too easy.

"You are the strongest woman I have ever met. I expect you will hold on for a very long time," he responded. When he leaned over her again, Kelandris thought that that was the only answer she was going to get. But then he nipped at her earlobe – his unnaturally pointed teeth shredding the delicate skin like so much tissue – and whispered a dire promise in her ear.

"Eight days."

She froze.

Eight days.

Eight. Eight _days_.

Horror didn't even begin to describe her reaction. Had she not been cursed with consciousness, she would have fainted. Eight days of terrible, unceasing agony – it may as well have been an eternity. And she was going to feel every minute of that pain... If there was any mercy left in this world, any at all, he would make a mistake and kill her sooner. But Kelandris had no hope left for such a thing – if she had ever had the Maker's grace, it had long since faded. If it hadn't, she would have been dead already. She would get no mercy here.

Not for eight endless days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red!Lyrium!Cullen-aka-Anguish's unofficial motto is LOL NOPE.

When the red Templar bastard stopped kissing her, Kelandris spat blood in his face. There was no reason to hold back any longer – whatever horrors would have awaited her in punishment now doubtless awaited her, regardless. Her tormentor was not angry at her defiance, however – strangely, he seemed _pleased._

"Ahh," he sighed in response, the sound thrumming with unholy excitement, "I've missed your spirit." His claws trailed languidly over her chin and down her neck. She had many, many similar scars already – her Commander had always liked caressing the sensitive skin of her throat, with a touch as kind as his twisted counterpart's was cruel. The back of one gauntleted knuckle ran back up the new line he'd carved, leaving a scarlet smear in its wake. The cut was not deep, but Kelandris almost wished it was – she would take more pain over that awful not-quite-tenderness that reminded her so much of what she'd lost. It was, of course, too much to ask – her tormentor had retained Cullen's knack for sensing her desires, but like the rest of him, it had been twisted, perverted. He used that knowledge to devastating effect, thwarting each and every one.

Metal clinked as he unchained one of her manacles. Red crystal fingers wrapped around her wrist in its stead. Smirking, the red Templar raised her hand to his lips. He licked blood off her smallest finger – the only one with a fingernail still firmly attached – and Kelandris flinched, expecting at any moment to feel pointed teeth sinking into her flesh. The dreadful anticipation only worsened as seconds ticked by with only gentle strokes from his too-hot tongue – but her little finger emerged from his mouth unscathed. When he started sucking on the next, though, she was not so lucky. Thanks to his earlier efforts, the nail was loose – he nudged it, deliberately, and her hand twitched involuntarily against his grasp. Her other fingers throbbed at the motion, their tips horribly exposed – she whimpered, knowing that that was where his mouth was headed next...

The cruel bastard lingered for an unbearable moment with her middle finger poised against his lips. Even the faint stirring of his breath was enough to make the empty nail bed sting. So when he finally resumed his macabre attentions, when his tongue finally rasped across the raw nerves there... Oh Maker, it _burned._

Kelandris was gasping by the time he decided to move on. Residual pain pulsed through her middle finger, in time with the rapid cadence of her heartbeat. But not a moment passed before his lips closed around her index finger, in turn. She shuddered with trepidation. At least knowing what to expect would make it a little easier to—

The knife-sharp points of his teeth dragged across the vulnerable flesh at her fingertip. Agony lanced through her, all the way to the wrist, like needles made of fire. How could such brief contact hurt so much? She keened, and he did it again – a little harder. This time, she cried out, thrashing against his hold— only to discover that he'd already released her. The motion that was meant to jerk her wrist against his lyrium-strengthened grip served instead to scrape her flayed back, hard, against the rough stone beneath her. Her _wholly_ flayed back. Over the weeks, the corrupted Knight had finished stripping it bare, skinning her alive by excruciating half-inches. Never again, however, had he made the mistake of taking too much at once and leaving her blessedly delirious. No, instead the process had been slow and drawn out – and maddeningly unpredictable. On any given day, he'd peel away a single strip of skin, or maybe two or even three... or, if she was fortunate, maybe none at all. Once he'd gone three whole days without touching her back, and she had thought that he was finally, finally done, that she would end up with some skin left after all – until the day after that, when he'd ripped away her fragile shreds of hope and carved more stripes into her flesh. Four of them, that time. The bastard had laughed and laughed as she shrieked in anguish and despair...

Just like he was laughing now. His wicked chuckles echoed hollowly off the walls as he watched her thrash. Blood smeared on the stone beneath her as her flayed skin scraped harshly against it. The resulting surges of white-hot agony were enough to leave her blind and breathless. Oh, Maker, _Maker,_ the pain of missing nails was _nothing_ compared to this – and yet, she still felt her fingers throbbing, as well. It shouldn't have been possible. The wave of sensation from her ravaged back should have eclipsed everything else. It should have washed away all her lesser torments on the back of its scorching tide— but blood magic had enhanced her mind, granting her an unnatural clarity of thought – and an unnatural capacity to experience pain.

"Uncomfortable, love?" Her tormentor's voice was laced with mocking sympathy. Kelandris had finally forced herself to lie still, panting and whimpering. He brushed the back of her hand, lightly – a cruel parody of a soothing caress. "Perhaps a distraction is in order. Allow me to give you something else to focus on."

His claws ran over her skin, trailing down her little finger. He seized the end of her nail between two crystal-bladed talons, and she tried to brace herself against the coming wave of pain. She knew from bitter experience that it would build gradually, rising to a searing crescendo as he slowly eased the nail apart from—

He simply tore the whole thing off.

With one powerful, wrenching twist, it came away completely in his fingers. Kelandris was almost too shocked to scream – though after a moment, scream she did. As soon as the initial surge of agony began to fade, he flicked a claw across the newly-bared patch of skin, setting it to blazing once again. But the sensation didn't distract from the pain in her back (as he had obviously known it wouldn't) – thanks to the curse he'd had placed upon her, it only added to her torment. It was utterly unbearable, and there was nothing she could do about it. This was hell, and there was no escape.

"I do like hearing you scream," her torturer purred, with another delicate flick of his talon. Pure spite gave her the strength to suppress her cry of pain. She would not give him the pleasure. He cocked his head, eyebrows lifted in mild surprise, and tried again, one razor-sharp claw sketching a line of fire across her bloody fingertip. A piteous whine escaped her self-control, that time, though she managed to stifle it before it turned into a full-fledged scream. The red Templar regarded her for a moment, expression tinged with... wonder?

"Such strength," he breathed, crimson eyes alight. She had impressed him, it seemed – the thought made her skin crawl. "Kelandris, you are just... _magnificent._ "

Even as he spoke, his lyrium-bladed talons ghosted over her skin. They ran down the length of her little finger and up the one beside it – where the last nail remaining on her right hand sat loose in its bed. For a moment, he stilled, letting her stew in dread, and then he set to work. It was slow, this time. Excruciatingly so. She held back her scream as long as she could, but eventually her will gave out in the face of that tearing, creeping pain. When it did, the sight of his triumphant smirk filled her with hate.

Finally, after what felt like eons, her tormentor finished his grisly task. Still smiling, he sauntered around the slab to which she was bound. He grated his claws against the stone as he went, raising a terrible screech that pierced her eardrums and set her teeth on edge. He paused on her other side, red eyes trailing hungrily over her helpless form. Finally his sanguine gaze came to rest past her manacled wrist, lingering pointedly on the tips of her fingers. He was no doubt relishing the thought of ripping the fingernails off her other hand, as well. Kelandris gritted her teeth and clenched her fist, futile though she knew the gesture would be. It would take hardly any effort on his part to pry open her hand and—

Her other hand. Her _left_ hand. The hand that bore the Anchor.

She hadn't thought about using her Mark in a long time. She hadn't been _able_ to think, about anything, in a long time. Now, though, the foul magic that kept her sane had also given her back the ability to focus. Desperately, she reached for the Anchor, a drowning woman grasping at driftwood in a storm— and it came to life, with a flare of emerald light. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, even given the rising pain in her arm from the wild surge of energy pulsing through her. A chance, a weapon, something she could _control—_ But it was not quite responding as it should. There was a scar on her palm, where her captor's knife had once been slammed straight through her flesh, and the Anchor's power was having trouble pushing past it. Kelandris redoubled her mental effort, swallowing a whimper as her frayed nerves protested the extra sensation. She just had to redirect the tide of energy slightly, send it _around_ instead of _through—_

Scarlet crystals pierced her palm, further disrupting the flow of magic. She gasped as the Anchor crackled, sputtering uselessly. Green light and red blood both spilled around the Templar captain's claws. That had _hurt_ – but Kelandris had more important things to focus on. Raw power surged down her arm, and she struggled to redirect its path around the wounds both old and new that obstructed the Anchor. But her tormentor could plunge his red lyrium claws into her flesh much more quickly than she could force the Mark to adapt, even with blood magic enhancing her mind. She was fighting a losing battle. Still, she struggled – she would not give up. She would _not_ give up...

Kelandris knew she had failed when he wrapped her hand in both of his and _squeezed_. Her bones ground together with the force of his grip, and the flare of energy sizzled, trapped just under her skin. She let the Anchor flicker out, defeated.

"Alright," she gasped when he did not relent, tears of pain springing to her eyes, " _Alright._ You win, I won't— stop, I get the point, _please—_ " If anything, her pleas only made him increase the pressure, a cruel smirk curling across his once-handsome face. Bone cracked under his hands, then splintered, then finally _shattered._ She was writhing again, screaming as her body betrayed her, waves of agony cresting and breaking with every frantic spasm. A voice in her mind was gibbering, repeating _pleasepleasepleaseplease_ in a litany of insanity that should have consumed her whole, but was held at bay instead by a maleficarum's will. And above her, not-Cullen merely smiled, crimson eyes shining as he crushed her Marked hand to a bloody pulp.

For a while, the chamber reverberated with the sounds of her torment. Finally, the echoes faded, and for a beat, ringing silence reigned.

"Maker's breath," her captor blasphemed, then, "You are _so beautiful_ when you suffer."

The words cut as deeply as any knife. They sounded so much like Cullen, like _her_ Cullen, her Commander, and _how could he still make her think that_ after the things he had _done—_ She cursed at him, savagely, aching with grief and rage as well as pain. He laughed, and smothered her stream of profanity with his lips on hers. One bloodied gauntlet tangled in her hair as the other pressed on her shoulder, driving her down against the stone. It was a tactic he'd employed many times before – make her scream in agony, then force his scorching tongue into her mouth... But this time, she had nothing to lose – and he wasn't holding her jaw. Kelandris bit him, as hard as she could, sinking her teeth into his lip as he had so often done to her. Her flash of triumph lasted only a fraction of a second before she started choking on his blood. It seemed to burn in her mouth, tasting of lyrium and corruption – she tried to jerk back, only to be stopped by the hand in her hair. The red Templar captain's lips shifted against hers, curling into a smirk, before he returned the favor. His teeth did a lot more damage than hers had.

Finally, he drew back, their mingled blood dribbling down his chin. He licked his lips, his smile widening into a full-fledged grin as she gagged and spat beneath him.

"I love you, Kelandris," he said softly. "There's so much fight left in you, still." He pressed a bloody kiss to her forehead. She flinched.

"And to think," he added, with a wicked glint in his scarlet eyes, "We've only just begun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere, Solas is probably rolling his eyes and saying something like, "That's not how the Anchor works! It is merely a representation of a key, a link to the Veil – the physical condition of the hand to which it is tethered should have no effect on—" And then I tell him to shut up. Because I wanted a reason why Kelandris can't just open a rift and swallow up Anguish like the little badass she is. A reason besides "handwavy plot" and "that would be no fun," anyway. Plus, in the process I also got an excuse to use the phrase "crush ___ to a bloody pulp," and who wouldn't want that?! Bonus!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geeze Louise, it's been a while. Sorry about that, I've been busy with school. I can't guarantee that I'll update any faster now that I've graduated, but I can promise, again, that I won't abandon a fic permanently - updates will always come sooner or later!
> 
> So, without further ado, let's play "Guess the author's favorite form of torture"!

Kelandris's right shoulder collided hard with unforgiving stone, knocking the air out of her lungs. She'd been thrown onto the floor of an unfamiliar room – and the landing was unpleasant, to say the least. The bruising pain of impact was mirrored by a white-hot throb from her mangled left hand. The sting from her back had worsened, as well – it had probably started to heal, again, before she'd been forced to scrape off all the scabs with her writhing. She'd lost count of how many times that had happened, now. Gritting her teeth, she fought against an agonized groan. It was pointless to try remaining silent for long, but this small act of defiance was the only way she had to exert her will over any aspect of this nightmare. A nightmare that was about to get much worse, if her surroundings were any indication. She had only caught a glimpse of the room before being tossed unceremoniously aside, but that glimpse had shown her more than enough. She'd been suffering for weeks in one dungeon cell or another, but this... this was incontrovertibly a torture chamber.

She wished she could simply lose herself in the haze of agony and terror that gnawed at the edges of her mind. But dark magic kept her lucid, making it impossible to avoid taking in every gruesome detail of her surroundings. The floor under her cheek was sticky with blood. A stained and scarred counter lined the back wall; a trough at one end held an ominously glowing bed of coals. The sight made her stomach clench. The last time she'd felt the searing kiss of a brand, she'd blacked out almost as soon as the hot metal touched flesh. She had already been sapped of too much strength, both of mind and of body, to deal with such pain. But that escape would be denied to her, this time. And now that neither her longevity nor her mental state were of any concern, there were _far_ too many vulnerable places where a torturer of sufficient cruelty could apply a red-hot iron to devastating effect. The red Templar captain was unquestionably cruel enough to exploit them all, and then some.

He would not lack the means to do so. The brazier in the corner was only the first of the horrors in this chamber. Every inch of wall space that wasn't draped with chains played host to a fearsome array of devices – whips, knives, pincers... Just about every implement of torture she'd ever heard of, along with a great many she hadn't. Despair and fear vied for dominance within her, settling around her chest like bands of iron. Her tormentor had been vicious enough with only his claws – with such an arsenal at his disposal, the results would be horrific. But even that was not the worst part of this hellish prison. No, worst of all was the way every bit of metal glinted scarlet. A sanguine glow emanated from the far wall, gleaming off sharp edges, tinting everything the color of blood— there, in the corner, a massive formation of red lyrium stretched from floor to ceiling. Tendrils of crimson light wreathed the crystal spines, writhing lazily as a malevolent hum pulsed just beyond the edge of hearing. Once she started looking, Kelandris couldn't tear her gaze away, sickened and mesmerized alike by the slow swirls of color within those scarlet depths... She squirmed at the sheer _wrongness_ of it, and whimpered quietly as the motion sent fresh waves of pain rippling down her spine. She didn't have long to languish, however – a clink of chain sounded somewhere above her, and then she was hauled upright by a fist in her hair. Her eyes watered at the pain in her scalp. When she blinked away the tears, she saw the manacles her captor had released to dangle from the ceiling, and blanched.

They were spiked. On the _inside._

The corrupted Templar left her no time to absorb her fate. He let go of her hair, seizing a wrist in each hand before she could fall, and wrenched them over her head in a surge of pain – five too-bright lances shot down her right arm, reminders of her missing fingernails; a heavy, unrelenting blaze roiled down her left, courtesy of the useless, bloody lump of her hand. Kelandris squeezed her eyes shut in trepidation. Nothing she did now would matter. Her captor was bigger and stronger and faster than she was, inhumanly so, empowered by the red lyrium flowing through his veins. It would be impossible to break his grip, and folly to even try— There was _absolutely nothing_ she could do, she could thrash and cry and scream and beg and it _wouldn't matter,_ because she was completely at the mercy of this _beast_ who wore her lover's face and laughed at her pain—

The wave of helpless despair peaked as metal pricked her skin – eight sharp points, encircling one wrist. A whine rose in her throat, and she bit her lip to hold it in. It was a stupid reflex – her captor had done much the same every time he kissed her, and her mouth was already bloody and swollen. The effort was futile, anyway. As soon as he started to close the brutal loop of chain, her whine rose to a keen and ripped free of her control. By some miracle of will, she managed to keep from thrashing against his hold as blood trickled down her forearm. _Sweet blessed Andraste, it **hurts**..._ A dark chuckle sounded in her ear; her tormentor tightened the shackle even further. _Maker,_ how deep did those spikes pierce? Every motion jarred the metal in her flesh – it felt like she was being devoured by some great, cruel beast... With a final click, the red Templar captain secured the band of steel around her wrist. _Through_ her wrist. Heedless of her cries, he jerked her other arm into position beside the first. The torment was quicker, this time, and more intense – a tidal wave of pain crashed over her senses as the second set of spikes drove home, all at once. Struck breathless with agony, Kelandris couldn't even scream. A broken litany joined the cacophony of suffering in her head – _take them off, take them off **please** , it hurts, it **hurts** , please_... She couldn't ignore it, couldn't stop it, couldn't even embrace it and let it devour her whole. Her mind was bound to sanity by chains forged of her own blood, as surely as her wrists were bound above her by chains of steel.

When the corrupted Templar captain next stepped up behind her, she expected more pain. She flinched at the feel of his hot breath by her face – his teeth were sure to follow. So when his lips brushed against her ear in a horribly tender kiss, when he whispered, "You are beautiful," in his achingly familiar voice... she was completely unprepared, helpless to defend against the surge of grief and want that rose within her. She cried out, overwhelmed, sobbing a name that was not his, not anymore—

"Easy, love. I'm here, I've got you," not-Cullen soothed. His arms encircled her waist in a hideous facsimile of affection. The embrace was all jagged crystal and hard steel – exactly the opposite of the one she remembered, the one she _craved._

The one she would never feel again.

"I hate you!" She snarled. "I hate you so much, I hate you, I _hate_ you—" _I love you,_ echoed the anguished whispers of her heart, _Cullen, beloved, I miss you, I love you,_ "—I _**hate**_ you, you _fucking_ bastard—"

Lyrium-bladed talons curled around her throat, cutting off breath and epithets alike. He pulled her tightly to his chest – the ravaged flesh of her back slammed hard against the crystal spikes marring the front his armor. Her vision went white with agony. And as she choked, writhing, the red Templar captain nuzzled her blood-matted hair, softly, gently... The tender caress only served to emphasize his effortless cruelty.

"I love you, too, Kelandris," he crooned in her ear.

She shuddered in his arms. He finally let her go when she started to spasm, desperate enough to trade agony for air. Moaning and wheezing, she slumped. Her cruelly impaled wrists throbbed, the pain growing worse by the second. Her tears stung her cheeks like they were made of flame – she was covered in half-healed lacerations. The red monster's claws had already marked nearly every inch of her skin. Now they dug into her flesh anew as he shifted his grip, grasping her hips and—

...Setting her on her feet? There was enough slack in her chains to allow her to stand, albeit with difficulty. She'd been too overcome with despair to notice on her own. The startling revelation jarred her out of her unthinking emotion, and she gasped as her agony eased, ever so slightly. There had to be a catch – there was _always_ a catch – but even so, the unusual display of mercy left her reeling. Her captor released her to busy himself behind her back, and she had to bite her tongue against the urge to thank him. The bastard had caused her more pain than anyone could ever hope to bear, and forced her to bear it anyway – and yet, somehow, he still managed to manipulate her into feeling gratitude. As if she needed more reason to despise him.

"I got you something, beloved," he announced smoothly, now, reentering her field of view. A knot of cold fear settled heavily in her stomach – that was ominous. He bore a flat wooden case, which he set down on the counter before her with a flourish. Flicking open the catches, he tossed an eager grin over his shoulder. The smile made her skin crawl. Once, in another life, she'd thought it adorable. Now, with blood in his teeth and corruption in his eyes, it was merely deranged.

"I know we've both enjoyed _these_ very much—" he flexed his claws, "—but I thought I'd look for something with a little more... finesse." Maker. That was _very_ ominous. Smirking, he stepped aside to reveal his "gift:" a set of small curved blades, nestled in black velvet. They were unusually thin, and finely crafted. Idly, he picked one up, admiring the play of scarlet light against the steel. The bloody glow glinted up and down the wicked edge as he twirled the blade, hypnotic and horrifying. 

"They're _very_ sharp," he remarked, his low rumble rippling with lyrium's malevolent undertone. "Do you know what they're for, love?"

_Stabbing you in the face until you shut up?_ Kelandris didn't quite dare give voice to such reckless defiance. Not in light of this latest threat. Those awful crystal talons were as good as any dagger for making simple cuts – so he obviously had something else in mind, something more sinister. A torture that called for a delicate touch. A torture, perhaps, that he had tried before, one that had very nearly killed her... No, she did not know for certain the purpose of his newest toys. But oh, she could guess.

They were flaying knives.

Her tormentor must have seen the terror in her eyes. He chuckled, low and satisfied, and the crystal spire in the corner pulsated in unholy counterpoint. She moaned – everything seemed so much _worse_ in red lyrium's seething light. With a sadistic smirk curled across his lips, he stepped closer, tangling his free hand in her hair and leaving fresh scratches in her scalp. And then he laid the edge of his blade against her face. The cold steel settled beside her nose, the razor tip resting ominously just below her right eye. She kept very still.

"I could give you a demonstration, if you're not sure," he murmured darkly.

"No!" The word was a desperate gasp. Her captor's red eyes narrowed. The knife pressed a little harder, a trickle of blood sliding down the blade... "P-please," she forced out, "At least— at least not my face. _Please."_ He paused at that, considering. Kelandris held her breath. She should have long since lost the capacity to hope – he'd proven time and time again that there was no such thing as mercy, here. But _very_ occasionally, when she begged just right, she could convince him to alter his punishments, if not alleviate them...

"I don't think so."

"No, _please!_ Somewhere else. Anywhere else. Please, Cu—" she choked on the name, hating herself for this betrayal, "Cullen, l-love. Please."

Silence. Then... "Well, my lady, how could I refuse when you ask so nicely?"

She went limp with relief as he withdrew, only to stiffen abruptly as metal scraped against bone – putting weight on her wrists was _excruciating._ The next thing she knew, a hand had seized her ankle in an iron grip, pulling her off her feet, and she let out a strangled cry. The red Templar captain forced her leg up behind her, bent at the knee – but it wasn't until she felt the edge of his knife at the back of her heel that she realized the extent of his intended cruelty. Immediately, a wave of utter horror washed over her. Of all the places he could flay, she had thought her face would surely be the worst. But clearly, when it came to torture, she lacked the depths of his imagination. Her soles... That would be much more painful. She would be stuck with a terrible choice – keep her feet off the floor, and suffer as spiked chains dug into her wrists; or spare her arms, and know the unending torment of standing on stripped flesh. Either way, inevitably, the muscles in her legs would give out, and she'd be forced to bear both punishments regardless.

"No, Maker no _please,_ I changed my mind, please, please I cha _aaaaAAA **AAAH!** "_ Her protest devolved into a scream – he'd let go of her ankle to rake his claws down her back, a molten tide of agony seething in their wake.

"You asked for this, Inquisitor," her jailor admonished. "You _did_ say 'anywhere' – or are you going back on your word? I expected better of you, love." He set taloned fingers against her flesh once more, pricking the raw nerves between her shoulderblades. It was a very clear threat. Kelandris, shaking, said nothing. Arguing any further would only earn her another taste of his claws. _No, not again, don't make him do that again!_ He'd probably planned this from the beginning, the sick bastard, having her beg only to move on to something worse...

His claws withdrew from her back; deftly, he recaptured her foot. She whined with terrible anticipation as she felt the touch of cold steel once again – but of course, of _course,_ her tormentor couldn't simply get it over with. No, he had to make her wait. He had to let her _sit_ there, stewing in her own dread, trembling, with a knife pressed against her skin— Waiting for the cruel kiss of a blade that _just would not come..._

She snapped. _"Damn_ you, you infested scum!" She howled, with all the desperate fury of a cornered beast, "Get on with it, you bastard – the sooner you do, the quicker I'll die! Just finish torturing me already and _let me be free!"_ The ragged yell reverberated off the stones. The looming column of red lyrium resonated with her cry – the crystals rang with a dissonant chord, as if mocking her pain. Her tormentor let out a cruel bark of laughter. Finally, when the last echoes had faded away, he started to flay her. 

His knife sliced through her skin like it was made of gossamer. The edge was so sharp she hardly felt the cuts – at least, not immediately. The slight sting quickly blossomed into a searing line of fire encircling the bottom of her foot. When he pulled her toes back to slip the flat of the blade into his incision, the only sound that managed to escape her lips was a high, breathless mewling. That continued as he loosened the skin with a little bit more knife work. And then... 

The pain when he pulled it free was indescribable. 

He wasn't finished. Her toes came next, one at a time – she wouldn't be allowed to balance on them, either. After that he dropped her ankle, so suddenly that she couldn't catch herself before the fresh wounds hit the floor. When they did, her vision went dark around the edges – for a moment she thought she would actually pass out, blood magic or no blood magic. Either knives were much more effective than claws, or her back had healed far more than she thought. She'd been forced to writhe against rough stone more times than she could count, but that had _never_ felt as bad as this... 

Her tormentor moved on to her other leg, and that was worse still. Wrists screaming, muscles shaking, she fought to keep her newly-bared flesh above the ground, but it was a losing battle – especially while he peeled her other foot. And when he was done, when he'd stripped away everything that could possibly touch the floor, he tossed the bloody scraps of skin on the brazier in the corner. Then he left her there, alone, surrounded by the acrid fumes of burning flesh and red lyrium's tainted song. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got curious and did a little research to see how biologically accurate my torture scenes actually are. ~~Plus I kind of have a bit of a sick fascination with flaying~~... Not particularly accurate, apparently, though not entirely impossible. Read on if you're interested.
> 
> It turns out that injuries that strip off skin are mostly classified as burns (which makes sense – think of, e.g., friction burns). More layers of skin = a more severe burn. Technically, a flaying is a _fourth_ degree burn. Yikes! Anyway, your skin is really important, for more than just holding your insides together – it regulates moisture and temperature, and keeps infection out. The cause of death from being flayed is apparently not blood loss, it's shock, or hypothermia, or dehydration, or infection... And losing all the skin on your back – which makes up about 18% of your body surface area – would almost certainly kill you, except possibly if you had immediate access to high-quality medical care. I... could argue that Kelandris kind of did? Though only if you consider a lot of elfroot "high-quality medical care". But since it's magic, I'm okay with suspending my disbelief. Although, Anguish probably cut things a little closer than he'd like, there.  (Pun intended.)
> 
> I also wanted to know if flaying was really as painful as it's usually portrayed (like I've done here, too). That was harder to figure out, since it's not like people make a habit of torturing each other and writing about it on the internet (at least I certainly hope not). My conclusion was "maybe?" Actually removing all the skin would sever the nerves, which would be _extremely_ painful, but then you'd have no nerve endings, so the aftermath wouldn't be that bad. I think. If you could just scrape off the top two layers or so, you'd expose more pain sensors, though, rather than simply cutting them off. So, mega ouch. I found a few claims from people who do autopsies that you can't actually separate the layers of skin with a knife (unlike burns, which separate them chemically, or something). But it seems like torture would be different than autopsies, so... I dunno. Game of Thrones certainly claims that the aftermath of a flaying is the worst part – and I figure anything that the Boltons can do, Anguish can do, too. If need be, I'll explain it away with handwavy demon magic giving him extra precision. So again, not entirely implausible.
> 
> And there you have it. Probably more than you ever wanted to know about skinning people alive! :D


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super double bonus chapter! :D
> 
> Gosh, did you think I'd write this whole thing without stopping in to see how Cullen is doing? (Hint: badly.) Don't worry, writing him in emotional pain is just so much fun, I couldn't possibly resist. Mmm, such sweet, sweet anguish...
> 
> For best results, read the second part in that utterly, heartbreakingly broken voice Greg Ellis does for Cullen in some of his cutscenes. Maker, I just want to reach through the screen and give him a hug when he sounds like that...

**Written in a firm hand on an old scrap of parchment:**

> clear. The Inquisitor is not...  
>  is to be brought in alive and...  
>  has something special in mind...  
> 

**Written in an Inquisition field agent's cipher. Half the report is missing, and the neatly-shorn edge is stained with blood:**

> Overheard in red Templar...  
>  "No, there are no new orde...  
>  about to ask! Go bother the...  
>  if you're so desperate to get...  
>  patrol. He's busy with his priz...  
>  heard her _scream?!_ No way in...  
>  interrupting _that!_ Now shut up...  
>  complaining." No further inform...  
>  be recovered without additional...  
>  Reporting back to Skyhold as of...  
> 

\---

Sister Nightingale stared down at the two partial notes. They had been handed to her a few minutes ago, by the agent now standing patiently in front of her desk in Skyhold's rookery. He had already passed on everything he knew, which was precious little. The message fragments had been taken from another agent's corpse – one who had been presumed dead three weeks prior. Her body had been found yesterday, miles away from her last known location, murdered in the middle of nowhere on a nondescript road leading back towards Skyhold – _Maker, take her to your side._ They had no way of knowing where the agent had been, or when she had found that piece of a note – the date on her report had been cut off. Together, the two clues painted a gruesome picture of the Inquisitor's fate – but beyond that they were all but useless, the very definition of a cold trail.

This was also the best lead they had.

Sighing internally, Leliana dismissed her scout with a nod of thanks. She scanned the few lines of text once more. It was a fruitless exercise – she could recite the contents of both fragments by heart at this point. And she wasn't about to gain any additional insight from reading them for the hundredth time – the intent was as obvious as it was chilling. No, she was simply procrastinating; now that she had admitted it, she could cease doing so and move on. She had another task to perform – one that was too important, and too fraught with potential complications, to entrust to anyone else.

Someone had to tell Cullen.

A few minutes later, the Spymistress rapped sharply on the Commander's door.

"What?" came the growled reply from within. Her only answer was to open the door and step inside. Cullen's glare could have pierced holes in tempered steel – but his ire faded when he saw who had entered his office. He jerked to his feet immediately. The desperation that replaced his anger was painful to behold, not least because she felt some of it herself, though her distress was but a pale echo of his. The Inquisitor's loss touched all of them. Her very presence had made even the greatest problems seem surmountable – without her, it was easy to lose both hope and purpose. The Inquisition had floundered in her absence. No mission or request seemed worth pulling resources from the search for Kelandris, and their allies were starting to mutter. None of the Inner Circle cared, though. And anyone who complained to Josephine was politely informed that the Inquisition would be happy to consider their proposal, provided the affronted party could convince the Commander of its value—

The first noble to try had ended up with a broken nose and a black eye. He promptly made a fuss – until Josie, the dear, suggested he resolve his differences with Ser Cullen in the Antivan fashion, and offered to find him a sword. The cowed lord had shut up, after that. No one else made an attempt.

Not that all the resources of the Inquisition had done much good. Leliana wished she had something more substantial to report, for Cullen's sake and hers alike.

"There is good news, and bad news," she said quietly, holding out the half report and the scrap of parchment with its ominous message. Cullen reached for the pages quickly, then paused for a fraction of a second, obviously restraining himself from simply ripping the notes out of her hand. Instead, he took them carefully, glanced down at the text— and looked up again almost immediately.

"She's alive?" His voice had gone hoarse. Leliana had to suppress a wince at the sudden hope flickering in his eyes – clearly, his gaze had been caught by 'the Inquisitor' and 'alive,' and skipped sightlessly over the rest.

"Possibly. That is the good news. We have a lead to follow, now."

Cullen processed that, then swallowed. "And the..." He trailed off as she merely gestured at the parchment in his hand. Visibly steeling himself, he looked back down. His eyes flickered over the pages as he read, and then one hand clenched on the edge of his desk, hard enough that Leliana could hear his gauntlet creak. For a long, long moment, he remained frozen, staring at the fragments of text just as she had, hardly seeming to breathe. She cleared her throat softly as the seconds dragged on. His head snapped up, his gaze meeting hers with feverish intensity.

"Who sent this?" He demanded. "When? Where did you—" He broke off – she was shaking her head sadly.

"We don't know. The agent that found it is dead. I thought she had died weeks ago, the body destroyed – but one of my scouts discovered her corpse just yesterday, bearing this. We will follow her trail, of course, but there's next to nothing to go on at the moment."

The Commander glanced down at the fateful notes once again, lips twisting into a deep grimace. "Damn it," he muttered. Leliana held out a hand, and he returned the pieces of parchment slowly. She pretended not to notice the way they trembled in his fingers. Abruptly, the heavy desk shook as Cullen's metal-clad fist _slammed_ into its surface. It must have hurt, but he didn't even blink. She curled her free hand into a fist of her own in empathy, wishing she could do something more to help him, to help all of them...

 _"Damn it!"_ He roared, rounding on her. Leliana closed her eyes. "Void take you, woman, what use is a spymaster who finds _one_ piece of evidence and can't even trace it?!"

She let out a measured breath. Shame and righteous indignation rose within her, but she gave into neither. Recrimination could come later, after the Inquisitor was safe. _Or dead,_ whispered a cold, practical voice in her mind. She ignored that, too. In front of her, Cullen's breathing was still too loud in the silence, harsh and angry – but she knew she was not the cause of his fury, just a convenient scapegoat. The Commander respected her work, just as she respected his. Opening her eyes, she met his murderous glare with as much compassion as she could muster. After a moment, he wilted, burying his face in his hands.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, I just— I—"

"I know," she interrupted gently. Cautiously, she rested a hand on his shoulder. He drew a shuddering breath and looked up slowly, his eyes dark and haunted. Leliana recognized the horror in that gaze – the same horror she had seen at the top of Kinloch Hold, standing beside the Hero of Ferelden. It was the look of a man watching his friends die, violently and horrifically, and being helpless to stop the carnage— or of one imagining his love held captive, suffering a similar fate, trapped far beyond his reach. It was not a pleasant expression, but the spymistress did not flinch.

"We _will_ find her, Cullen," she vowed. The shadow behind his eyes did not lessen, but a steely resolve hardened his face, keeping the despair in check. Grimly, he nodded. A moment later he glanced toward the door, his meaning clear: _Get to it, then._ Leliana needed no further urging. She turned back towards her tower. There was work to be done.

\---

He had to be strong for Kelandris.

Cullen repeated it like a mantra. The thought was the only thing that sustained him. The only thing capable of sustaining him. His faith was something of a comfort, but he couldn't afford to spend time reciting the Chant of Light. Not now, not when his beloved needed him – but they didn't know where she was. He felt useless, worse than useless. He should be out there looking for her, not shut up in this pointless office, doing what, signing papers? But he was no agent, no hunter – there was nothing he could do in the field that someone else couldn't do better. He was the Commander, his work was here, and all those stupid papers he should be signing were the reports and requisitions and authorizations that would find his love and bring her home, more so than all the frantic searching of one half-broken ex-Templar— but _damn it all,_ he couldn't just sit around while she was in danger, he knew what it was like to be helpless while the people he cared about suffered and died, and he _couldn't do that again,_ he couldn't he couldn't he would go mad—

He had to be strong for Kelandris.

He made it through half the documents on his desk before the horror caught up to him again. _Haven't you heard her scream?_ one red Templar had demanded of another. Cullen had seen Kelandris fight – he had heard her bellow war cries to the heavens as her blade struck down foe after foe. He had slept beside her while she dreamed unpleasant dreams – he had heard her cry out in remembered fear as nightmares invaded her sleeping mind. He had made sweet love with her long into the night – he had heard her shout his name from deep within the throes of ecstasy. But he had never heard her scream, _really_ scream, never heard her make that awful, primal _shriek_ that was only caused by unadulterated agony, by the sort of suffering that transcended conscious thought, stripping away everything but pure, animal sensation— Cullen snapped his pen in half when he thought of that sound coming out of his lover's mouth. It was nigh unbearable, imagining her in that much pain – but his torment would be nothing, _nothing,_ compared to hers. Trembling, he flung the broken pieces of his quill aside and buried his head in his hands. He couldn't shake the thoughts of Kelandris being tortured. Maker's mercy, he couldn't even close his eyes without picturing it – his beloved Inquisitor rendered powerless, writhing, wrapped in chains— _screaming_ as she was torn apart, just like the others he'd been forced to watch in Kinloch Hold— how was he supposed to function like this?! He simply _couldn't,_ it was all too much—

He had to be strong for Kelandris.

It got worse at night. Cullen pushed himself long into the evening, as hard as he dared. Time and again, he dragged himself back from the brink of despair through sheer force of will. At last, he reached his limit, and nearly fell asleep at his desk. His love had often chastised him for that, insisting that he take care of himself and get a proper rest – so instead of merely passing out where he sat, he hauled himself upright and stumbled up the ladder to his quarters. He wasn't quite sure how he managed to ready himself for bed – but that was another thing Kelandris had drilled into him, not to go to sleep in his armor, so maybe it wasn't too outlandish after all. As soon as he collapsed onto the mattress, though, his brief burst of determination vanished, and the full weight of the day came crashing down on his shoulders.

His lady love was suffering at the hands of the red Templars. Cullen couldn't help but feel that this was his fault, somehow – his penance, maybe, for all the atrocities he'd witnessed in Kirkwall and been unable or unwilling to stop. It was irrational, he knew, but that didn't keep him from wallowing in guilt just the same. Maker, he missed his beloved so much – she had always been able to snap him out of his brooding. He wanted to wrap her in his arms again, wanted it so badly he ached. He wanted her to run strong fingers through his hair and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. He wanted— no, he _needed_ her voice, her touch, _something_ – even her mere presence would do.

With a whimper, Cullen rolled over, reaching reflexively for her warmth beside him – but his arm flopped heavily against the empty sheets. He clutched desperately at her pillow instead. _Oh, Kelandris, my lady, beloved..._ What had they done wrong? Why had this happened? Why him, why now— why _her?_ Surely they had both been through enough already! He stifled a sob against the soft linen in his hands. And then another, and another, until he was shuddering, wracked with despair— Maker's _breath,_ he was pathetic, lying here crying in his safe, comfortable bed, while somewhere, his Inquisitor languished in a cold, dark cell... He didn't deserve to be whole while she was being broken. But neither could he afford to fall apart – the Inquisition was her only hope. If he ever wanted to see her again, he _had_ to keep it together.

He had to be strong for Kelandris. There was no other choice.

Cullen had never felt so weak.

~

Miles away, and deep underground, Anguish cocked his head, drinking in a distant whisper of emotion. Then, slowly, the demon smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hesitate to leave me comments. Sometimes writing this fic makes me feel like a terrible person, so it's nice to know that other people are equally terrible. <3


End file.
